Page 60 of Exchanged

The crowd grows still, and Mayor Nelson makes a quick speech into a bullhorn, though we can’t hear most of what she says. Then she steps off to the side, raises a starting pistol into the air, and fires.

The crowd explodes with cheering and clanging cowbells as the runners lean forward, using their weight to overcome the inertia of the sedentary outhouses. Slowly, they gain momentum and begin trundling up Main Street, their cleats gripping the frozen ground, ice and snow spraying up behind them.

Because Main Street isn’t wide enough for all of them to fit side by side, the teams jockey to stay in front of the pack. The Biohazard pulls past the Bullshitter, ripping off an antler, and one of the college students dragging the Crop Duster trips over the antler, bringing their team to an abrupt halt. The Bullshitter, now off-kilter, nearly crashes into Dad and Garrett’s Shitstorm, but it takes a lucky turn, both teams escaping catastrophe. The crowd gasps, then whoops appreciatively.

By the time the pack is halfway up the street, the Shitstorm and the Beer-Can-Mobile have pulled in front of the other outhouses. But as they draw even with Cheeky’s Bar and Grill, the Beer-Can-Mobile begins veering to the right, forcing the Shitstorm toward the sidewalk. The bottom edge of the Shitstorm scrapes against the concrete curb, twisting it dangerously askew on its skis. From inside, Terry makes a faint, panicked sound, barely audible over the roar of the crowd. This is exactly how their team lost last year.

On my left, Trevor is yelling encouragement to Garrett. On my right, Ryan Beltrami is shouting taunts at Evan’s dad. Even as the Shitstorm careens close to disaster, it’s good to know that no one wants Evan’s dad to win. I take my phone out in time to snap a photo of Garrett, red-cheeked and fierce, a strand of hair plastered to his forehead.

The outhouses draw level with where we stand, and I can hear the racers’ heavy breathing, Dad’s continual muttering of obscenities. There’s fire in Garrett’s eyes as Evan’s dad tries to edge in front of him, pushing the Shitstorm to the brink of annihilation. Suddenly, Garrett puts on a burst of speed and veers to the left, shouldering hard into Evan’s dad—a move not unlike what I’ve seen him do on the football field. The Shitstorm pulls away from the curb, and for a moment, both teams of racers are one mass of running bodies, the outhouses rubbing sides.

But then, unbalanced from Garrett’s shove, Evan’s dad falls and his teammate trips over him. The Beer-Can-Mobile thuds to a stop against both their bodies, and its squatter tumbles out the door, landing in a heap on top of them. The Shitstorm breaks free from the mayhem, and it has a clear path to the finish line.

The team digs deep, putting on one final burst of speed, and when they cross the finish line, the crowd roars. Terry stumbles from the outhouse, and he and Dad hoist Garrett on their shoulders. Someone shakes a full beer and sprays the entire team with foamy amber liquid. The chanting begins at the top of the street and makes its way to where we stand.

“Shitstorm! Shitstorm! Shitstorm!”

Trevor, Ryan, and I are jumping and hugging and chanting, too, and I don’t remember when I started caring so much, but I imagine this must be what it feels like when your team wins the Super Bowl.

Later, when I find Garrett, he’s wearing a medal around his neck and a bemused, triumphant expression. Sticky dried beer gleams across the front of his jacket, and he smells like he slept on the floor of Grady’s Bar and Grill.

“I still don’t understand what just happened,” he says.

“You became a town legend.”

I hand him a paper cup filled with hot cocoa, and we stand and watch the town celebrate New Year’s. The Elks Club has started a bonfire in the middle of the street and is handing out marshmallows on roasting sticks to kids. A pair of cops attempt to break up a fight between two older guys who went too hard, too early. People stream in and out of the Irontown Arts Guild, where Aunt Liz leads a class on how to fold and weave birch bark.

At midnight, there won’t be a ball drop. Someone will notice the time on their phone and begin shouting a countdown, and everyone will join in. Then most people will head home, though the bars will stay packed until early morning.

“I was wrong,” Garrett eventually says.

“About what?”

“When I got here, I said Irontown was nothing.” He takes a sip of cocoa. “But it’s not. There’s something pretty special about this place. Like, I live twenty-five minutes from downtown Atlanta and obviously the city has a ton of great stuff. But my suburb? There’s nothing unique about it, not like this. We have the same chain stores the rest of the country has. I don’t know anyone besides my friends from school. Two other houses on my cul-de-sac look exactly like mine. It all feels a little … empty compared to this.”

I think about the Burton-Clark and College of Mines applications sitting, nearly complete, on my laptop, one of which might serve as a ticket to a future somewhere else. Garrett is the person who encouraged me to leave this town, and now he’s making me second-guess myself.

“There are plenty of great places out there,” I say.

“Of course there are.” He lifts his shoulders. “I’m just saying you’re lucky to have this one.”

“It isn’t big enough, though, is it? Not for all the things I want to do with my life.” Halfway down the street, Mr. Campbell and his jazz quintet start playing a lively piece. It adds warmth to the winter night.

“Maybe it is. But probably not.”

“Look,” I say, pivoting from the depressing turn our conversation has taken, “that medal around your neck will get us free food. We should take advantage of it while we can.”

“Oh, it gets me way more than free food,” he says as we head back into the heart of the crowd. “Do you know how many grown-ass adults have tried to give me beer?”

I wince. “Was my dad one of them?”

“Nah. But I did see him hanging out with Ms. Virtanen and looking hopeful, so who knows what he’s up to.”

I shake my head. “How would you feel if I talked about your parents’ sex lives?”

We approach a cudighi stand, and seeing the medal around Garrett’s neck, the worker hands us two steaming sandwiches without asking for payment.

“To be fair,” Garrett says around a mouthful of meat as we continue ambling down the street, “our parents probably have no interest in our sex lives, either.”